


Nuclear Reaction

by entanglednow



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-04
Updated: 2009-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one sees them fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nuclear Reaction

No one sees them fall.

Sylar slams into the ground, hard enough to break every bone in his body.

Peter hits at considerably less of a speed, but he still slides in the dirt, tearing the skin on his hands, knees and shoulder. When he bites, rolls, and comes to a painful mess of a stop, in a furrow a hundred miles from anywhere. He's still coughing out dirt when Sylar moves, arms pushing himself up, before he's even half re-made, teeth clenched while he slowly edges himself upright, still loose with cracks, and trails of blood, that smear and run over new skin.

Peter doesn't even have his breath yet, he's still twisting in the dirt, but Sylar's already close enough to wrap tacky fingers round the edge of his shirt, hauling him over, with an arm that's still half dug open with little bits of stone. Peter flings his own arm out, digs in his nails. The fight taken from sky to earth, ground shuddering under every push, every roll, skin bleeding powers as quickly as blood. Neither of them are contained to what's human any more. They're not playing, they've pushed everything out into the open, abilities clashing, and slamming into each other. Until Peter's teeth ring, skin opening and closing, and opening again, too fast to follow. And, whether he heals or not, surely nothing can take this much punishment?

Nothing.

Every snap and flash under the skin, and then out, and Sylar's hands burn where they touch him, where they catch at his own skin.

"You can't burn me," Sylar says simply.

Peter treats that like a dare, hands lighting everything they touch. Sylar's coat and shirt come off of him in smouldering lines of fabric, separating and sliding away, leaving flakes of bright ash, that scatter as they roll free. They're too hot for anything made of cotton, or leather, to survive, belt buckles burning red hot, and clanking to the dust, while their shoes leaves smears of black in the dirt as they pull free from their feet.

And it should be impossible, they should both be melted ruins of skin and bone, on the ground. It's painful, and horrible but Peter's too busy trying to stop Sylar from choking him, or sending electricity arcing down his throat, to save breath to scream. Until they're crushed against each other in the dust, naked and smoking, the ground scorched around them, and Peter's breathing like he's been running, like he's been sprinting. Every inch of him feels like it's been electrified, like his skin would snap at whoever touched it. Even though Sylar's hands are everywhere, damp-hot, and twisting, and fierce, where Peter slithers out of them.

Only to find himself crushed to the ground by the sharpness of knees and hands. Heavy where he presses in, heavy every time he moves. Electricity arcs and snaps between them, but Peter can't feel it, because his fingers are on fire. Sylar's hands dig in, like he feels it but doesn't care, bare feet skidding in the dirt, kicking up clouds of dust, that fly up over the burning, and re-forming, skin of his arms.

Peter can feel all the ways Sylar is alive too, the way his arms burn, the ache in the back of his skull from where the pieces are still fixing themselves, moving earth and bits of grit from inside to outside. And Peter _shouldn't_ feel that, he doesn't work like that.

He shouldn't feel like he's breathing twice.

He thinks Sylar can feel it too, because he shoves down, like this is his fault, like this is something new that he's done. And it burns, it burns all the way through. Peter pushes up, shoves back, and Sylar's teeth, sharp and white, click together, Peter feels it too, the quick, solid ache in his jaw, the roll of fury, and triumph, and confusion. It swells, expands, and Peter's hair prickles, every inch of skin alive and tightening, like a warning, and there's a deep primitive part of Peter's brain that wants to drag himself away, to scrabble back through the dirt, like he'll be eaten alive if he doesn't.

Sylar's no longer pushing either, he's trying to peel free, trying to get away.

They're closer than they're supposed to be, no longer burning each other, but burning _together_ , burning as a whole.

"Stop," Peter chokes out, but he doesn't know how, and Sylar clearly doesn't either.

It's already too late.

It doesn't stop, doesn't fade, slides deeper, sharp like a knife, and then hot, too hot to breathe through. Peter thinks he's on fire, inside and out. It's like a feedback loop of power that shouldn't be possible, a loop that doubles, and triples, until Peter can't breathe, can't see. Panicking in the dust, digging his fingers in anywhere he can still feel.

Something gives, and Sylar is slammed into him so hard the ground cracks sharply, ripples out away from them in a wave. Like it's been smashed by a giant fist.

The the landscape goes white.

There's nothing at all, for a very long time.

Then Peter slowly becomes aware of sensation again. Dirt digging into his shoulder blades and calf, fingers round the bend of his arm, the bend of a knee forcing the edge of his waist into numbness, and a dragging trail of darkness over his face. Peter turns his head, pulls his face out of Sylar's hair.

He shakes his head roughly, but the whole world is jangling like a bell, low after-echoes of sound that vibrate all the way through him.

The ground is on fire a few feet from Peter's head, literally on fire, black and pitted, and leaving ashy smears on his aching skin.

Sylar is making soft noises against the skin of his throat, nose pushed into the shell of Peter's ear. Peter thinks they'd be words if there was more air. But he can barely breathe himself, hand tight, and aching, where it's folded round Sylar's waist.

He coughs, throat scratched raw and hot, in the desert air, he blinks away spots.

Tries to work out what the hell happened.

Tries to -

His hands don't want to move, his face tips, scrapes against the rougher, harder edge of Sylar's. A jagged spike of sensation, that feels so much _realer_ than the rest of the world does right now.

"What happened," Peter slurs out. "What the hell happened."

Peter's amazed Sylar hears him, he can barely hear himself through ears that sound full of water. But there's a rough, loose head-shake an inch away.

It stops, and Peter hears skin scrape the ground, feels the vibration of a sound roll through Sylar's chest and into his. It says Sylar feels as dizzy, and put back together wrong, as he does.

What the hell did you get when you forced polar opposites together, against the rules of nature? You get explosions, you get energy, massive amounts of energy.

Which might explain way Peter feels like he's still on fire.

But this is genetics, not physics.

You can't get both, you can't _be_ both.

Sylar moves, sluggishly, gets his knees under him, and Peter loops an arm round his neck without thinking about it. Let's him draw him upright too. They sway, awkwardly, and survey the damage. The ground is a black mess as far as Peter can see, cracking in places like glass, deeper here than anywhere else, deeper in the middle. Deeper at...ground zero?

Sylar's so close, close enough that the slightest movement would have them breathing into each other. Or worse, burning each other again, burning, and Peter still doesn't understand.

He doesn't move.

The steady thrum in his ears eases, turns into a low echo of sound.

Strange attractors.

More physics.

But the laws of physics don't apply to people.

He turns his head anyway, opens his mouth against the rougher edge of Sylar's, meets him halfway, and they don't burn again, the wind picks up. throws dust against them, smelling like hot metal and fire. Peter leans in, let's Sylar's shoulder take the weight of his arms while dirt scrapes the lines of his knees. His mouth is cool after the fire they've just been through.

Sylar accepts the unexpected without surprise, threads long fingers into Peter's hair and takes, obeys this strange new law of physics that he doesn't understand.

Peter always gives, Sylar takes.

Maybe it's not physics, maybe it's evolution?


End file.
